Chapter Four - September

The Texas sun beat down like a pissed-off god, scorching the concrete sprawl outside AT&T Stadium in Dallas. Inside, the air buzzed, electric, thick with sweat and cheap beer fumes. Fifty thousand Republican faithful packed the stands, their roars shaking the steel arches overhead. Red-white-and-blue banners snapped in the breeze, “Blair 2025” plastered across them in blocky letters. Thomas Blair stepped onto the stage, a temporary rig slapped down on the famed Cowboys field, and the crowd lost their minds. His black beard caught the light, slicked-back hair perfect, that billion-dollar smile flashing like a weapon. He was their guy, and he knew it.

Down on the turf, the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders strutted their stuff, pregame eye candy for the rally. Blonde ponytails bounced, white shorts hugged every curve, and those star-spangled tops glittered under the massive TV screen dangling above. They kicked high to some twangy country beat, all legs and grins, the crowd whooping as they hit the chorus. Thomas watched from the podium, one eyebrow cocked; pretty, sure, but he’d seen better in his boardrooms. Carly Bush leaned in close, her blond hair brushing his shoulder, whispering, “They’re eating it up, Sir. Perfect touch.” He smirked. Let the girls dance; he had a country to win.

The cheerleaders peeled off, waving pom-poms, as Thomas gripped the mic. “Folks, we’re here at AT&T Stadium, home of winners, home of fighters!” He grinned. As a die-hard Cowboys fan, he spoke about their glorious past rather than any modern accomplishments.

The roar swelled, boots stomping the bleachers. “And I’m damn proud to stand where legends bleed for glory, because that’s what we’re doing, fighting for America!” He paused, letting the noise crash over him, then raised a hand. “But I can’t do it alone. That’s why I’m bringing out the man who’s gonna help me take back this nation, your next Vice President, Senator Paul Hague!”

The crowd erupted again as Paul stepped up, late sixties, silver hair swept back like a preacher’s, his suit crisp despite the heat. His face was all hard lines and sanctimony, a Bible-thumper’s scowl that could guilt a sinner into next Sunday.

The Texas Senator shook Thomas’s hand, grip like iron, then turned to the mic. “America’s gone soft; moral rot’s eating us alive!” he barked, voice gravelly as a tractor engine. “But with Thomas Blair, we’re bringing back God, family, and guts!”

The stands shook, hats waving; they were eating up his traditional Republican talking points. However, his eyes, sharp and hungry, flicked to a busty brunette in the front row, her cleavage spilling from a tight tank top. A flicker of something nasty crossed his face, gone in a blink. Busty women were his vice.

Thomas clapped Paul’s shoulder, grinning wide. “That’s right, Senator Hague’s the real deal. Together, we’re gonna be unstoppable!”

The Presidential nominee's campaign manager, Carly Bush, whispered through a headset in Thomas’ ear, “The latest polling data is out. 61-39 our favor.”

Thomas grinned, smug as hell. Carmen Lopez was a tabloid punchline now; those bathroom images had her campaign bleeding out. He pictured her, those fake tits, that tattooed back, stumbling through some half-assed speech while he stood here, king of the goddamn hill. Soon to be king of Capitol Hill.

The cheerleaders fired off one last high kick, pom-poms glittering, as the crowd chanted, “Blair-Hague!” Thomas soaked it in, AT&T Stadium was his coliseum, and Carmen didn’t stand a chance.

❖

The Democratic campaign HQ stank of stale coffee and desperation, a cramped briefing room with peeling posters curling off the walls like dead skin. Carmen had kept the bulk of the staff on leave for weeks as she came to terms with her crumbling chances.

The fluorescent lights flickered, casting jagged shadows over the dozen reporters slumped in folding chairs, their notebooks open but eyes glazed. Carmen Lopez stood at a chipped podium, her light blue turtleneck stretched tight over those damn F-cup implants, strapped down as best as she could, although not as well as she wanted. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her long black hair pulled back in a messy knot, strands sticking to her neck.

The Democratic nominee gripped the mic with both hands, knuckles white, and forced a smile that didn’t reach her green eyes. Jared Kissinger loomed behind her, arms crossed. Carmen needed to right the ship, and that started today.

Carmen cleared her throat, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” she started professionally, despite her voice cracking on the edges. “After careful thought and consideration, I’m proud to announce my running mate for the upcoming election, Congressman Graham Birch, a man who’s gonna help us bring balance and unity back to this country.”

The words felt horrible in her mouth. She had always planned to choose a female VP, but the recent events had forced her hand. She needed someone who would appeal to white male voters. Carmen’s Mexican accent was thicker than usual, slurring “balance” into something sloppy. A smattering of applause rippled through—half-hearted, pitying. She hated it.

Graham stepped up beside her. He was in his mid-fifties, white as a ghost, bald with a soft paunch under his gray suit. His handshake was damp and limp, like a dead fish, but his smile was steady and practiced.

“Thank you, Senator Lopez,” he said, voice smooth like a radio ad. “I’m honored to join this fight for the everyday American, the working folks, and I am calling out to all our independent thinkers who want a government that will work for them!”

Graham’s eyes flicked to her chest, then away fast, a nervous twitch at his mouth. He launched into a spiel about “normalcy” and “hope,” words Carmen barely heard over the pounding in her skull. She swayed slightly, the weight of those fake tits pulling her off balance. She only had a few days to hold on before she was whole again. Just a few more days.

The reporters scribbled, but their smirks said it all, desperation move, the white vote pick. One coughed, hiding a laugh as Carmen’s stance faltered, her heels scraping the floor.

She tried to chime in, “Graham’s gonna appeal to, to los votantes—” but her tongue tripped, “voters, the ones we need,” sounding like a plea. Jared stepped closer, his hand brushing her back, too damn close, and cut in, “That’s all for now, folks. We’ve got a campaign to run.” His tone was sharp, abruptly ending the press conference without consulting his boss.

Across the country, Thomas Blair watched on his private jet, sprawled in a leather seat with a bourbon in hand. The live feed flickered on a tablet, Carmen’s wobbly figure filling the screen. He snorted, ice clinking in his glass.

“Look at her, pathetic,” he muttered.

Carly Bush lounged beside him, legs crossed, her red nails tapping the armrest. “Birch? Really? She’s scraping the bottom of the barrel,” the smoking hot blond sneered, smirking as Carmen nearly toppled mid-sentence.

“Our polling data says she’s toast.” Thomas laughed, loud and mean, his mind moving back to the image of her on the cover of that tabloid, busty and slutted up, ready to have some fun in a public bathroom. This was going to be too easy.

Back at HQ, the reporters filed out, muttering “trainwreck” under their breath. Carmen slumped against the podium, chest heaving, glaring at Jared. “This is mierda,” she hissed before covering her mouth. Her thicker accent, the language slips, they were all getting to her.

But Jared just shrugged, already turning away. If she couldn’t even inspire her volunteers, how would she inspire America? Just a few more days, she muttered under her breath.

❖

Carmen Lopez stormed into the private clinic, her light blue turtleneck clinging to those cursed F-cup implants, her heels clacking on the tile floor. September 5th, finally, the day to rip these things out and take her damn life back.

She shoved past the receptionist, barking, “Where’s the doctor? Vamos, ahora!” Her voice was thick, Spanish spilling out unbidden, her green eyes wild. Jared trailed her, hands in his pockets, smirking like he owned her already.

A nurse knew the California senator was arriving and hustled them into a prep room, the door locked for safety. A metal table was waiting, and Carmen tore off the turtleneck, revealing the tight bandages she’d wrapped herself in, straps digging into her tanned skin.

“Get these off me,” she snarled at the nurse, her frustration boiling over, making her uncharacteristically snappy. The blond nurse nodded, hands trembling as she snipped the bandages away. The F-cups spilled free, heavy and obscene, silver barbell piercings glinting under the harsh lights.

Carmen glared at them in a wall mirror—scarred, fake, a nightmare she didn’t sign up for. “Malditas tetas!” she spat, turning as the doctor shuffled in—a balding guy, late fifties, glasses low on his nose, clutching a clipboard. He barely glanced at her, muttering, “Lopez, right? Let’s get you prepped.”

“Damn right,” she growled, shoving the gown from the nurse over her head and jumping onto the surgery table. Jared stepped closer, his presence hovering over her, but the Democratic nominee ignored him.

Carmen laid back as they strapped her wrists and ankles; standard, they said. “Fix me, you hear?” she hissed at the doctor, who just nodded, flipping through his chart without a word. The gas mask dropped, cold against her face, and she sucked in a breath, muttering, “Just a few more minutes…” Darkness swallowed her, a flicker of hope her last grip.

She woke to a freight train pounding in her chest, her head a foggy mess, tongue thick and stuck. She groaned wearily, “Qué… qué pasó?” Blinking hard, she took the handheld mirror given to her by the nurse and froze.

Carmen screamed a raw, jagged “No, no, no, qué carajo!” Her F-cups were definitely gone. However, they were replaced by G-cups, rock-hard, bolted-on monstrosities, fake as hell, jutting out like plastic melons, scars red and raw underneath. The chances of hiding these firm, gravity-defying tits would be impossible. The piercings stayed, obscene against the taut skin.

Her lips, holy shit, her lips, were swollen, collagen-packed pillows, glossy red and barely closing. She touched her face, gasping—thick black eyeliner tattooed around her eyes, pink blush smeared high, permanent fire-engine red lipstick caked on, turning her into a slutty caricature.

“Qué hicieron!” she shrieked, voice slurring, her thick accent obvious as she struggled to find the English in her panic. She bolted upright, straps snapping, and lunged for the doctor, who stumbled back, clipboard clattering.

“What the hell!” he stammered, glasses fogging. “I thought you wanted the deluxe package!”

Jared grabbed her arm, yanking her back, a grin splitting wide. His subservient attitude had quickly diminished, “Jesus, Carmita, you’re a fucking showstopper now.”

She swung at him, fist limp, missing wide. She didn’t know what to do. “You hijo de puta, this isn’t me!” Her body betrayed her; those G-cups jiggled, throwing her off, and she crashed into the table, gasping.

The doctor babbled, “You got new implants, as requested. Top-grade silicone, lips enhanced, makeup tattooed—my best work!”

Carmen clawed at her chest, nails—now long, painted red—scraping uselessly. “Quítamelos!” she cried, but Jared’s hand clamped her shoulder, keeping her subdued possessively.

“Look at you,” he said, shoving the mirror back in her face. She stared, exotic features buried under a painted mask, green eyes popping against the liner, lips parted like a cheap hooker’s. Her breath hitched, a sob choking out, “This isn’t… me…”

Jared chuckled, low and nasty. “Sure it is, chica. This is you now—my little goldmine.”

Carmen’s eyes widened. Goldmine? She was a United States Senator and the next President of the United States! She tried to stand, legs buckling; someone had swapped her heels for tacky 5-inch red platforms while she slept.

The gown slipped, bearing the “Jared’s Whore” tattoo on her lower back, framed by her new curves. A flicker caught her eye—Mr. Purple, green skin glinting, tipping his hat with a grin before vanishing. “Demonio!” she hissed; her Campaign Support officer ignored her crass pleas and walked her towards the door.

“Wait, I can’t—” she stammered, voice melting into a sultry. “Sí, papi, I mean—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified, but Jared laughed.

“That’s it, Carmita, roll with it.” He shoved her into the hall, G-cups bouncing with every step, platforms clacking, staff staring, then ducking away.

The doctor trailed, whining, “Sign here, it’s done!” Jared snatched the pen, scribbling for her, muttering, “She’s perfect, just like the old days.”

Carmen’s head spun, fake memories flickering, nights in skimpy skirts, flirting with strangers, Jared pocketing cash. She shook them off, growling, “No, I’m a Senator—” but her tongue tripped, “Soy una… una…”

She couldn’t finish, the words dissolving into a confused sigh. Jared’s grip tightened, helping her out of the clinic. “Let’s get you home, Chica.”

Across town, Thomas Blair’s jet TV flicked to a breaking news alert, grainy clinic pics leaking, Carmen’s G-cups spilling from a gown, lips puffed like a doll’s. He cackled, bourbon sloshing. “Christ, she’s a walking wet dream now!”

Carly smirked beside him, “Those polls are too kind; she’s dead.” Thomas raised his glass, picturing her tattooed face buried in ruin, his win sealed tight.

❖

Carmen Lopez stumbled into the Democratic campaign HQ, her new 5-inch red platforms clacking like gunshots on the hardwood floor. The G-cups, rock-hard, fake monstrosities, strained against a cheap tank top Jared had tossed her in the clinic parking lot, the thin fabric barely holding them, her silver piercings poking through.

Her tattooed face—thick black eyeliner, pink blush, permanent red lipstick, glowed garish under the office lights, lips puffed and glossy, barely closing as she hissed, “Mierda, mierda!”

Carmen’s long black hair hung loose, tangled from the surgery struggle, framing her slutty caricature of a face. Volunteers froze mid-task—coffee cups hovering, phones dropping—as she lurched through the door.

Jared shoved in behind her, his smirk gone, replaced by a stern glare. “Move it, Carmita, we’ve got donors coming!” he barked, grabbing her arm and yanking her toward the main room.

The Latin Senator tried to reassert her dominance, snarling, “Let go, you cabrón!” but her voice slurred into a sultry “Sí, papi,” her tongue tripping over itself. Her legs wobbled, those platforms throwing her off, and the G-cups jiggled with every step, drawing gasps from the team. A young staffer—some college kid—snickered, whispering, “Guess the tabloids were right,” until Jared’s glare shut him up.

The room was a mess—maps pinned crooked, posters of Carmen’s old face peeling off the walls, a TV blaring Thomas Blair’s latest ad: “Family values, not street trash!” Her old campaign photo flashed—sharp suit, modest smile—then cut to grainy clinic pics leaked to the papers, her G-cups spilling out.

The staff stared, some turning away, others gawking like she was a sideshow. Graham Birch, her new VP pick, edged toward the back, mumbling, “This… this isn’t good optics,” his bland white face paling as he avoided her eyes.

Carmen gripped a desk, chest heaving, and forced her voice steady. “Listen, everyone, we can still fight this!” she snapped, pushing back the giggle bubbling in her throat. Her lips twitched, but she clenched her jaw, glaring at the team. “I’m still your Senator—your nominee!”

A tremor hit the Democratic nominee’s tongue, “Sí, so sexy,” but she bit it down, growling, “No, damn it, I mean we’re not done!” The room stayed silent, eyes darting to her G-cups, then away. She straightened, platforms wobbling, determination burning through the haze.

Jared stepped up, voice slicing in, “Shut it! She’s got a speech; get the donors in here!” He shoved a crumpled script at her, his hand grazing her chest, lingering too damn long.

She snatched it, nails—long and red—scratching the paper, and hissed, “I’m not your puppet, Jared!” Her voice held, no slur, but her hands shook. “I’m fixing this, me!”

He grinned, starting to see Carmen as little else but his girl, “Sure, chica, fix it from the stage.”

Carmen’s support staff led her to a makeshift stage, with wealthy donors trickling in, old white guys in suits, and eyes bulging at her new look.

She gripped the mic, script trembling, and started, “America needs us—” A giggle slipped, but she slammed it down, “—to fight, to win!”

The donors stared, one muttering, “What has she become?”

She pressed on, “Jobs, we’ll—” Her tongue twitched, “Jugs, so, ” She stopped, growling, “No, jobs, damn it!” Why was it difficult to get through a simple speech? She was a Senator, and she had read thousands of scripts.

The room snickered, phones flashing. Jared hissed, “Keep going!” but her knees trembled in frustration, and her platform stilettos gave way. The Democratic nominee hitting her knees in despair.

Across town, Thomas’s jet TV cut to the live feed, Carmen’s stumble, donors laughing. He cackled, “She’s a total joke now!”

Carly smirked, “I heard the polls will be 70-30 by morning; she’s cooked.” Thomas grinned, sipping bourbon, and victory was locked tight.

Carmen knelt, script shredded, glaring up. “I’m a Senator,” she rasped, voice raw, shoving down a sigh. “I’m not done…” Jared loomed, counting her worth, but her fists clenched—she’d fight, damn it, she’d fight.

❖

Thomas Blair sprawled across a plush leather seat in his private jet, the hum of engines vibrating through the cabin as it cut over the Midwest. His tie hung loose. Bourbon sloshed in a crystal glass, ice clinking with every cackle.

The tablet propped on his lap blared the latest feed, Carmen Lopez, giant, fake tits spilling from a tank top, stumbling on those tacky red platforms, donors laughing at her as she escaped the makeshift stage. He snorted, loud and mean, bourbon burning his throat. “She’s a goddamn trainwreck, look at her!” His black beard twitched with a grin, slicked-back hair glinting under the jet’s dim lights.

Carly Bush lounged beside him, legs crossed, her red stilettos kicked off, toes brushing his thigh. Her blond hair spilled over one shoulder, and she sipped a martini, smirking at the screen. “Ohh, yea. I don’t know what’s happened to her, but she’s done,” she purred, red nails tapping the armrest.

“First, we heard that she was secretly having those ridiculous things removed,” She laughed, “then she returns with a bigger, faker chest. It’s like she’s a different person. The blond’s words were sharp and cruel, leaning in to flick the tablet. “It’s helping our down-ballot opportunities too. If this is who the Dems believe can lead the free world, how can the American people trust their choices.”

Thomas raised his glass, grinning wide. “Damn right. Think of all we can accomplish in the next four years. Did you see the crowd’s reaction to my running mate? Everything is going to plan.”

He pictured Paul’s silver-haired growl at AT&T Stadium, the crowd eating it up, then Carmen’s flop, her G-cups bouncing, donors jeering. “I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t concede the race after this.” He gulped the bourbon, victory tasting sweeter than ever. “Those polls’ll bury her deeper than that bathroom tabloid tomorrow.”

Carly slid closer, her hand trailing up his chest, nails raking his shirt. “You’re untouchable, Sir,” she whispered, breath hot on his ear. “Hague’s got the Bible-thumpers, you’ve got the cash and vision. November is in the bag.”

The blond flicked the tablet again— Carmen’s clinic pics looped, her glossy lips parted, eyes wide with panic. “She’s a joke; no strap can hold down those huge jugs anymore.”

Thomas cackled, his eyes running over his campaign manager’s smartly dressed body and the curve of her own impressive chest—D-cups tight under her blouse, a tease he knew well.

He grabbed her wrist, pulling her in, bourbon splashing. “You’re one to talk—those curves could stop a war,” he growled, smirking as she pressed against him.

Carly grinned, martini tipping, “Only if you’re commanding, Sir.”

Thomas laughed, “She’s finished, let’s celebrate.”

She straddled him, skirt hiking up, her lips brushing his ear. “King of the hill deserves a queen,” she purred, nails digging into his shoulders.

He tossed the glass aside, clinking on the tray, and gripped her hips, bourbon buzzing in his veins. “Damn right, this jet’s got a bathroom big enough for royalty.”

Carly smirked, sliding off, tugging his tie. “Lead the way, Mr. President.”

They stumbled down the aisle, her heels dangling in one hand, his arm around her waist. The bathroom door slammed open. It was spacious, mirrored, and a mile-high lavatory only a billionaire could afford.

Carly shoved the businessman against the sink, blouse unbuttoning, D-cups spilling free as he yanked her skirt up. “Mmm, this is better than talking strategy,” he grunted, thrusting hard, Carly gasping. The jet rocked, their rhythm rough, her nails clawing his back as he pictured Carmen’s destruction, huge tits, tattooed makeup, obscene lips, that little green monster had really done her dirty.

They finished fast, panting, her smirk meeting his grin in the mirror.

❖

Carmen Lopez stormed into the backroom of Democratic HQ, her 5-inch red platforms clacking on the hardwood, firm, plastic breasts bouncing under the cheap tank top Jared had given her.

The door slammed shut, locking her and Jared in a dim corner, empty desks, a single bulb swinging overhead, and tequila bottles scattered from some staffer’s late-night pity party. Carmen’s tattooed face, thick black eyeliner, pink blush, glossy red lipstick, twisted with rage, those collagen-stuffed lips trembling as she glared at Jared Kissinger. He leaned against a desk, arms crossed, grinning like he knew something she didn’t. The Democratic Senator’s long black hair hung wild, framing the slutty mask she couldn’t scrub off.

“You bastard!” she spat, voice raw, fists clenched at her sides. “You’re treating me like some puta barata out there, like I’m your damn toy!” The G-cups heaved with every word, her silver piercings pressing against her tight top, but she squared her shoulders, green eyes blazing.

“I’m a Senator, Jared, not some lowlife trash you can humiliate for your amusement!” She stepped closer, platforms wobbling, determined to claw back control, her nails—long and red—digging into her palms.

Jared’s smirk widened, eyes raking her up and down, the false memories flooding his mind. “We can’t deny it any longer, Carmita. We know what you are,” he said, voice low and cold. “Look at you—those jugs, that mouth? You’re built for this. Deal with it.” He straightened, stepping into her space, his breath hot with coffee and cigarettes.

Carmen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Jared had been a loyal servant; like a puppy dog, she could kick around when she wanted. She swung at him, fist-shaking, but it faltered mid-air, dropping limp. “No—you don’t get to—” Her voice cracked, a sultry edge creeping in, “Sí, papi…” She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified, eyes wide as the compulsion hit. Memories she knew never happened slipped into her mind.

“No, damn it, I’m fighting this!” she growled, shoving it down, fists clenching again. “You’re ruining me—everything I’ve built!” Her tongue twitched, but she forced it steady, glaring through the haze.

Jared laughed, mean and sharp, grabbing her wrist and yanking her closer. “Ruining you? Chica, I’m making you—those donors’ll pay top dollar for a piece of this.” His free hand grazed her large breasts, thumb brushing a piercing.

Carmen flinched, snarling, “Stop it!” clean, no slur, but her knees felt wobbly, and as Jared took a step forward, she couldn’t support her own weight anymore, and she stumbled against a wooden desk.

Jared loomed over her, a grin splitting wide. “Still you? Look at that face; those lips were made for one thing.” He unzipped his pants, cock springing free, and her gaze dropped, locked on it.

She shook her head, growling, “No, I won’t—” but her body moved, sinking to her knees, platforms scraping. “Damn it, no!” she hissed, fists pounding the floor, but her hands lifted, trembling, reaching for him.

“Sí, Carmita, roll with it,” he mocked, gripping her hair and tugging her forward. Her lips, puffy, red, glossy, parted against her will, a sob choking out as she took him in, the tip brushing her tongue.

She gagged, fighting it, but her mouth closed around him, slow at first—tentative licks along the shaft, tasting salt and shame. Her other hand gripped his thighs, nails digging, as she bobbed, lips stretching wide, sucking harder. The rhythm built, long, deep strokes, her throat working him, spit trailing down her chin, G-cup tits jiggling with every move.

Jared groaned, head tilting back, fake memories slamming him as she sucked, nights on Figueroa Street, Carmen in a ripped skirt, blowing strangers for twenties, him counting the cash. “Fuck, just like old times,” he muttered, dazed, as her tongue swirled, flicking the tip, then plunged deep again, gagging loud.

The Presidential nominee’s eyes watered, tears streaking, but her makeup stayed perfect. She couldn’t stop, lips locked tight, sucking slow, then fast, a pro’s pace she never learned. His cock pulsed, thick in her throat, and she whimpered, hands clawing his legs, fighting the haze.

He gripped her hair harder, thrusting shallow, then deep, groaning, “That’s it, my little puta…”

More memories hit, her begging for her cut, pleading, “Papi, more,” under neon lights. His mind reeled, blurring truth and lies, as she worked him, long, wet strokes, tongue curling, lips smacking loud.

She gagged again, spit dripping, her sob muffled as he swelled, close now. “Fuck, Carmita—swallow it,” he grunted, and she did, against every scream in her head, throat tightening as he came, hot and thick, spilling down.

She pulled back, gasping, cum dripping from her glossy lips, pooling on her massive chest, staining the tank top. Her hands shook, wiping her mouth, but she slumped, defeated, staring at the floor. Jared zipped up, panting and muttering, “Good girl,” still lost in fake flashes, her on her knees in alleys, his cash piling up. “Now, I remember everything,” he said, shaking his head, bewildered.

Carmen rasped, none of his memories were true, “I’m… a Senator…” but it faded, her fists unclenching, eyes dull. The bulb swung overhead, casting her shadow, a painted, broken doll, her new, enlarged breasts heaving, lips swollen, no fight left inside her tonight.

Jared grabbed a tequila bottle like he was some lowlife pimp, swigging it, grinning as he counted her worth in his head. She stared at her red nails, a sob choking out, “This isn’t over!” She cried out. Jared simply patted the fierce lesbian on the head in pity. It would be the comeback of the century if she won now.

End of Chapter Four